Colouring In (28 page)

The listening silence had spread thick as fur, stifling. Bert went to put his glass gently on the table. The noise it made switched everybody’s look.

Now what I’m going to ask, I went on, and try to answer, is this: does this mutual recognition of
something
count as betrayal? Does it cause permanent guilt, slightly spoiling things for ever? Most important of all, does it impair the solidity of a good marriage? Is it corrosive? And are the two people who share the secret for ever in fear of it being discovered?

I stopped. In putting to them a fictional idea, had I given a clue to its inspiration? I glanced quickly at Carlotta who was hunting for something in her bag. I could feel the unease of the silence. Carlotta broke it. She waved a lipstick.

Gosh, what a lot of questions, Dan, she said. Are you sure the answers are up to making a fascinating play? – I mean, honestly, we’re in the twenty-first century, aren’t we? Could anyone on earth think that a
mere recognition,
or whatever you called it, is going to upset a solid marriage? – She looked from me to Isabel. – Pretty far-fetched, I’d call that. You can’t expect anyone to feel no temptation whatsoever outside a marriage, or a strong bond. Bet you anything God didn’t design us to be attractive only to one person in the world. But if the people concerned don’t do anything about it beyond a sort of…mistletoe kiss, of course they’re not going to suffer guilt, feel they’ve done some harm.

I just wondered, I said.

I’m not sure it’s worth wondering about, Carlotta snapped back. Having finished the scarlet re-shine of her lips, she was quieter, now. – Everywhere you look, she said, there’s real adultery, real betrayal. A passing kiss, or fancy, or moment of lust, is hardly going to upset things in this modern world, is it?

…just wondered, I said again.

Carlotta was blinking very slowly. I could see she was thinking as clearly as she was able. I still didn’t look at Isabel but was aware her eyes were on my twirling glass. It was time for me to bow out, stop making a fool of myself.

Pretty difficult subject you’ve got yourself there, said Bert, coming to my rescue as he so often does. Interesting, of course. – Be interesting to see what you do with it. But are you sure you’re doing the right thing, giving up on a play? You’ve never done that before.

I knew he was trying to change the subject, relieve me from further incoherent stumbling. I knew he was aware of my sense of mortification as I’d tried to put over an idea that seemed to be of little interest to any of them. It was always foolish to try to talk about something you intend to write: I’d learnt that lesson long ago. So why had I tried? Self-aggrandisement? The longing to share with the people you love the excitement of a new beginning? Whatever the reason, I now cursed myself. All I wanted to do was to dismiss the whole thing as quickly as possible. I filled everyone’s glasses.

I think, said Carlotta, eyes suddenly shooting at me, that despite my reservations, on reflection it’s a perfectly
fascinating
idea – don’t you Isabel?

Isabel, turned upon, surprised by Carlotta’s question, laughed to give herself time. She said she wasn’t really sure what I was hunting down. But, she agreed with Carlotta, she thought I might be exaggerating the significance of something very small. – Here she glanced at Bert before, at last, meeting my eyes. She went on to say she agreed with more of what Carlotta had said – that it would be humanly impossible not to entertain a fleeting recognition of attraction to someone beyond the person you loved and were committed to.. And why on earth should that upset the apple cart? Why should that be a threat to some profound bond? There was no reason, as Carlotta had said.

There was triumph in Carlotta’s eyes, dejection in my heart. I was convinced Isabel would have supported me. I was so sure she would have agreed with my theory.

I floundered on, trying to explain that what concerned me was the hidden stain on a relationship, should one person secretly embark on some so-called insignificant attraction. Wasn’t this a threat that was not worth risking?

It was late by now. No one, apparently, was interested in this question. None of them offered an answer. I sensed an acute feeling of failure, cutting as when, each time, a play returns unwanted. I wished more than ever that I’d never embarked on the whole amorphous subject. I heard Bert give a deep sigh. Then he brightened. Tell you what, Dan, he said. I think you’re onto something. If you can sort it all out in your new play… that’ll be quite something. A lot of people are faced with the dilemma you’ve been explaining, and would be glad of an answer. And when you’ve finished the play you could send it to Rosie’s nephew.

– Thanks, Bert, I said. I might do that.

Then Carlotta, with the impatience of one who had had enough news for one evening, pushed back her chair and stood up.

And what are you going to call the play? was her final question.

I hadn’t thought about that. I answered without thinking.

Hiding,
I said.

When Dan came to the end of his monologue, he looked shattered. I had the uneasy thought that his idea for his new play might have been inspired by real life. But no, surely not: Dan would never betray Isabel in thought, word or deed. I would swear on my life to that. – Besides, as he so often tells me, he never consciously writes from real life. Making it up is so much more interesting, he claims. – But he looked full of regret for having embarked on trying to tell us about it, and he didn’t get much sympathy. Altogether, it wasn’t the evening for news going down well. In fact it was the most peculiar and uncomfortable dinner I could remember for a very long time. And Isabel, my Isabel: she suddenly looked terribly tired, confused. If I couldn’t be the one to comfort her, I wanted to go home. Carlotta, thank God, got up, once Dan had confessed the title of the play, obviously feeling the same.

Dan’s incoherent ramblings could only mean one thing: he’d had far too much to drink. What on earth had got into him? Some death wish? Some sudden whim to play with fire? Though I don’t think for a moment either of the others imagined he was talking about real life – the real life of the four of us round the table. It was pathetic, the way he was trying to explain, and his explanation was hopeless. I wasn’t listening that hard, being more occupied by the thought of Bert buggering off just as I’d spent all that time getting his house ready for a happy life in London. – So Dan may have been making sense, but it didn’t get through to me. What I wanted to ask was: are you trying to say that because you and I had one, single kiss, your marriage – to you, though not to Isabel, is never going to be the same again?

But I didn’t, of course. There was enough dangerous stuff whirling in the air. An evening of increasing horror, as far as I was concerned, though the others seemed to be enjoying it – at the beginning, at any rate. I’d had enough. All I wanted was to get home.

So I stood up, full of purpose. Then I remembered. Hang on a mo, Carlotta, something inside me shrieked – have you forgotten your own piece of news?

Have to say, in all the clamour, I had. It was now or never.

I stood holding on to the back of the chair, for the room was a little wavy, the wine glasses dancing. I smiled like hell. Took my time. The others must have known something was coming, for they remained in their seats.

I said that – actually, and I was sorry – I had to be going because tomorrow was an important day for me. I was to give in my notice. And shortly – like Bert – there was to be a big change in my life. I was going to live in New York.

I don’t know what I was expecting by way of response: a modicum of surprise, dismay, interest perhaps. In fact there was a long puzzled silence. I suspected that after all the other announcements of the evening they weren’t able to take in something as huge as mine. After a while – my eyes went from one to another of them, recording their various degrees of bemusement – I heard Isabel’s feeble voice. Oh Carlotta, she said. Why on earth?

I was brusque, determined not to linger and ramble. Too late for detailed explanations, I said. But there comes a time in a single woman’s life when she wants to try something else. A place, a job, a life, where she will fare better. In other words I’d become increasingly aware I was in a rut and wanted a change. If it didn’t work out, I’d come back. – No, I wouldn’t sell my flat. England would always be home: this would just be an experiment. And, yes, I’d be off as soon as everything could be arranged.

I’d no intention of waiting for their reactions. I snatched up my coat and made for the door. Dan quickly followed me. In the two seconds we had alone in the hall he asked if I was sure I knew what I was doing. I said I was. He hugged me, dryly. Then Isabel came up and said she wished I wasn’t running off so quickly – though, yes, she agreed, it was well after midnight. She, too, put her arms round me: tense and taut as violin strings. I gave her a friendly smile and said I’d not be gone for a month or so, and I’d miss her once I was in New York. Then Bert took my arm. Close, we descended the steps to the path, and went out into the road. We heard the front door shut very firmly behind us.

I took Carlotta’s arm because my own head was reeling. If she was off to New York, how on earth was I to organise the transformation of my Norfolk house? That was the single, acute, utterly selfish thought that battered me as we made our way slowly and uncertainly down the steps.

We stood beside my car – Carlotta’s was some way down the road. A street light made a lemony haze over her hair, and distorted her face with shadows. She leant back against the car and removed my arm. D’you think I’m doing the right thing? she asked.

After some thought as to how best I might put my answer, and the wine-muddle of my brain did not make this easy – I said I thought she probably was. But such a major decision, I suggested, should not be taken too quickly. How about postponing the whole idea for a while? And while weighing up the pros and cons, with my help, how about coming to Norfolk and exercising her talents on my new house?

She looked up at me, her eyes almost invisible in their black fists of shadow, but I saw they were incredulous. She gave the smallest laugh I’ve ever heard, while a twitch of her mouth indicated she was attempting to smile. She said she was cold.

I opened the car door. With no fuss she got into the passenger seat and huddled her arms beneath her breasts. I sat in the driving seat and put on the heating.

I began to explain things. I would put her up in a very comfortable local hotel, I said, on her visits to Norfolk to make arrangements. I’d come up myself frequently while work was in progress, and make sure we had a good time: I’d like to show her the places of my childhood. I was sure the magic of Norfolk would win her…I said all these things without thinking, listening with some amazement to my own voice. How could I be asking Carlotta to re-arrange all her plans, come and help me once again? – But I was. And I could see she was not dismissing the ideas completely.

At last she turned to me. She said perhaps I was right. Perhaps she had made her decision too quickly. She needed more time to make arrangements in New York, to weigh everything up more carefully. So she would still give in her notice in the morning, and work for the necessary month or so. She would then spend three months, just three months, seeing to my house before she left. This she said so threateningly I laughed. But I promised: I would not persuade her to stay for more than that, even if the house wasn’t finished.

Then I’ll be off, she said. For a very long time.

I conceded that was an excellent plan. I meant it.

She sighed. What an extraordinarily awful, uneasy evening it had been, she observed. She regretted getting at Isabel in the way she had, although she found Isabel’s smug complacency almost more than she could bear, sometimes. But then you’d never utter a word against her, she added.

I admitted that would be unlikely. I didn’t know Isabel that well, I explained, but it seemed to me she was a marvellous wife and –

beautiful, added Carlotta.

That was not what I was going to say. Even in an inebriated state I was capable of exercising caution. But now Carlotta had mentioned Isabel’s beauty there was no need for me to add any carefully chosen praises. I thought for the second time that perhaps she had an inkling of my feelings for Isabel. Perceptive women can usually see behind a man’s most carefully constructed front. I ventured, to put her off the scent, that I thought Isabel’s so-called smugness indicated her feeling of the safety of the marriage, her absolute certainty in Dan. Carlotta sniffed. Absolute certainty? she asked. Absolute certainty’s a dangerous and a foolish thing.

Carlotta then sighed and said she must go. She claimed she wanted to think about my new life, which she was finding very hard to imagine. I offered to drive her home. She said no, she’d prefer to take her car. In which case, I’d walk home, clear my head. But thanks, she said, and she was sorry if she’d appeared to have run out of steam.

Simultaneously we leaned towards each other for a polite kiss on the cheek. Somehow our heads moved further than intended, and our lips met. I remembered her mouth. She allowed me to put a hand on her breast. I remembered, again. But I held back from any sign of wanting to go further. I didn’t want to alarm her. One day, perhaps…but this was not the right moment.

While we were enclosed in the blurred visions of an embrace, I thought of Dan and Isabel behind the drawn curtains of the kitchen: Dan pottering about in guise of helping to clear – Isabel? What would she be doing? Watching him? I could see her so clearly, the woman I loved, filtering about in her swishing blue, climbing the stairs to get into bed beside her husband. So near, and yet so unreachable. And all the time, loving her, I was kissing Carlotta and wondering why.

In unspoken agreement, we left everything. For once, it could wait till the morning. We were both exhausted. I was shaken. I think Dan was too.

He put on our favourite Schubert quartet. We sat at the low table by the window. Sipped glasses of water. The thought that had been thrashing about since Dan had broken his news, and which had stopped me from fully taking in Carlotta’s decision to leave, was that his new play was to be about the very thing I’d been wondering about this morning. It was uncanny, alarming. Was it pure coincidence, or something more sinister? Could Dan have any inkling? – Had some instinct made him think that Bert and I had acknowledged some innocent, but existing flare of recognition? Surely, surely not. There was not the slightest evidence. In fact, during his week here, Bert had gone out of his way never to be alone with me – apart from the accidental moment on the stairs – and never to give any hint of his feelings (which perhaps I will never know) for me. So I should have been able to feel Dan’s idea had sprung from out of the blue, as did all his ideas, he always claimed. All the same I felt sick, chilled by apprehension.